Snapshot: The sonny side of life

This is a picture of me and my two young sons (smothered in factor 45), sitting in our back garden in the good old days when the sun used to shine. It means so much to me because it makes me think that, although we all bicker with each other (as the house gets smaller and they get bigger), we are still great mates.

I can't make up my mind if the one on the left has covered his face from the sun or because he's had enough of me talking to him. The one on the right loves being in the sun and shares my dream of living in Spain one day.

I have this picture printed out on the wall in front of my desk at work. No matter how bad things ever get financially, I look at it and realise how lucky I am to have these two and that family life doesn't get any better than this.Martin Lawrence

Playlist: A lullaby from Iceland

Rugla by Amiina

"Ég er ugla/sumar ugla"

("I'm an owl/summer owl")

I don't speak Icelandic, but I've never forgotten those words, regardless of the language. Sung in a flurry of harmonies by the all-female band Amiina, the song comes from their album Kurr, released in the summer week my son was born. Aptly, Kurr translates as "cooing" and it became the soundtrack to the first hazy weeks of my son's life. Filled with bells and xylophones, it has a somnambulant feel.

My son was a catnapper and ridiculously hard to get off to sleep. We tried Slumber Bears and darkened rooms, car trips and lavender baths. Just before I attempted to tiptoe out of the room, he would turn to me with his wide, blue eyes untroubled by sleep. He would fight it off like a cornered boxer, until the sheer weight of tiredness forced his eyes closed. Rather than traipsing up the stairs like clockwork, I kept him in our sitting room and spent hours rocking the little ship of his buggy on imaginary waves. The ritual involved me pushing back and forth like a rower while Amiina's nursery chimes swirled around the room. It worked like a charm every time.

When he was four months old, I went to see the group play in Dublin. After a mesmerising gig, I got to meet two of the members and bought their new EP. When they heard about my sleep tactics using their music, they signed it - "with sweet dreams" - for my son. He is now a whirling dervish of a toddler, and sleeps 12 hours a night that you could set your watch by. But Kurr has been back on rotation since his sister arrived four months ago. It's a gorgeous, obscure album - but it's one Mothercare should consider stocking. Sinéad Gleeson

A letter to: My husband

Well, my darling, I can hardly believe that it's nine years since you walked the earth. Nine years, the space between us when we first met. Me barely into my 20s, you an assured 30-year-old, charming, funny and devastatingly sharp. I never stood a chance! Within days we knew our world had shifted for ever. Our adventures took us half way around the world, encompassing war zones and sleepy university towns. A dozen years and two children later, we finally made it home and settled down to a mortgage, a people carrier and encroaching middle age. Sadly, our ordinary life was shattered by a catastrophic heart attack.

The stages pass - that first incredible belief that you were still there, not helped by the word "late", as if you were merely a bad time-keeper. I believed in some part of me that you were indeed still there. The house presented you to me constantly: the open book, the half-drunk coffee, the hair in the bath. Yours was a "sudden" death, one without transition: one minute here, the next gone. The shocking abruptness of the event defied logic, so I followed suit and convinced myself that you were still reachable, if only I had turned my head a split second sooner - you were the figure on the shore, the voice at my ear, the breath on my neck, the sigh in my bed.

Then, as the physicality of you began to fade, it was replaced by the conviction that your return was imminent. Like some millenarian zealot, I counted the days into the 21st century - a love test, a leap of faith - all I had to do was to believe that you were coming back and it would be so. I constructed my own ideology. I found patterns to console myself, cryptic messages from beyond the stars, trying to make sense where there was none - just a heart that stopped. But surely such timing had a logic and you would step back into our lives - my personal messiah.

But that too passed, as all things will, and the realisation gradually dawned that this was no game, no test. There were no metaphysical miracles about to reveal themselves. The slow drip of reality began to blot you out and left a yearning so vast it threatened to envelop me and our little family.

But what kept me grounded then? What tethered me down? What allowed me to continue to gather our children to me and face the future? The memory of us, our history, your love - my internalised Galahad. You became a part of my makeup, part of the sum of my experience in a way that was impossible when you were alive. I could begin to look with your eyes, but not always exercise your considerable wisdom.

Well, we (the kids and I) have bumped along somehow, and I guess we have managed pretty well considering. But our loss is huge; though not as huge as yours. You have missed your children growing up: the minutiae of family life, the football matches, the dance recitals, the rainy holidays. You have missed the recognition of your achievements, the books published and the tributes paid. You have missed my cooking, moods and passion. Your absence has shaped us and in some way has probably made us stronger, but I would settle to be weak and have you back in the blink of an eye.

Always forthright, I have become a battler. You always admired that part of my character and sometimes, as I am making my point, I see you there smiling. I have taken on causes with gusto, especially those close to our hearts. While friends are celebrating silver weddings, I have spent my time fighting local authorities to make them do the right thing for our son. The successes I have had I long to share with you; the difficulties would have been so much easier to bear together.

Now, nine years later, a new line has been crossed. I am now older than you were when it ended. I am moving into alien territory - a space you have never inhabited. It feels like another passing. Our little ones are now grown and moving on in their own way. I step into a world that is truly without you - older definitely, wiser hopefully, and still so full of love. Holding you in my heart always - a mere two decades of life together, but an eternal union that nourishes my soul and leads me forward. Jane

We love to eat: Marshmallow crispies

Ingredients

Equal amounts of Rice Krispies (or other cereal), butter/margarine, marshmallows and toffee (I usually use 100g of each)

Put all the ingredients apart from the cereal in a pan and melt on a low heat (or alternatively in a microwave), then stir in the Rice Krispies and leave in a dish or bowl to cool.

I loved making this when I was younger, as I always felt so proud that I had done it without even needing to look at a recipe book. It was always a rare treat, as we had to wait until we had enough mini packets of Rice Krispies to make it, although I'm sure that wasn't a bad thing considering the nutritional content.

Every week I would check in the cupboard, and when we had enough Rice Krispies I would go to the supermarket and buy some toffees and marshmallows. If these aren't your thing, you can make this with anything you like - as long as it melts. Recently, we tried milk chocolate topped with sliced banana, which was a great alternative to the classic chocolate Rice Krispies.

I will always have fond memories of eating this sticky, sweet pudding on many occasions and look forward to having it again. Freya Ring